We answered “No;” and, in our turn, inquired whether the Vestale had seen or heard of such a craft.
The French gun-brig was by this time crossing our bows, distant about half a mile; her reply was accordingly made from her gaff-end, the fore-topgallant-sail and royal being at the same time sheeted-home and mast-headed.
It was to the following effect:
“Yes. Brig in question sailed from Congo yesterday, six hours before our arrival, with three hundred slaves on board.”
By the time that this message had been communicated—by the slow and tedious process then in vogue—the two vessels were too far apart to render any further conversation possible, and in little more than an hour after the final hauling-down of the last signal the Vestale’s main-royal sank beneath the verge of the western horizon, and we were once more alone.
Chapter Six.
In the Congo once more.
I have not yet, however, stated what it was in connection with our encounter with the Vestale which served to fan my fantastic suspicions into flame anew, and, I may add too at the same time, mould them into a more definite shape than they had ever before taken.